


5 + 2 (+1): Hawkesturbation!

by Sanguinifex (Eros_Scribens)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Rhapsody in ass major
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anal Fingering, Aphrodisiacs, Bathtub Sex, Bondage, Breast Fucking, Clothed Masturbation, Clothed Sex, Cock & Ball Torture, Collars, Consensual Incest, Dildos, F/M, Food Kink, Gangbang Fantasy, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Hyper Growth, Implied/Referenced Incest, Leashes, M/M, Masturbation, OCD Character, Object Humping, Other, Porn Watching, Predicament Bondage, Public Masturbation, Rimming, Sex Furniture, Sex Toys, Sexual Dysfunction, Snakes, Stealth Public Sex/Masturbation, Vibrators, solo female, solo male
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 05:57:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18243752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eros_Scribens/pseuds/Sanguinifex
Summary: All the Rhapsody in Ass Major Hawkes (and a few Amells) jerking off in everyday situations, with no particular regards to series chronology. That's it. Tags mostly in order that they appear. If a section has something you don't like, just scroll to the next one.





	5 + 2 (+1): Hawkesturbation!

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rhapsody in Ass Major](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3694247) by [Maverocknroll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maverocknroll/pseuds/Maverocknroll), [Ywain Penbrydd (penbrydd)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penbrydd/pseuds/Ywain%20Penbrydd). 



> This is fiction about fake people and I'm not making money selling it.
> 
>  **Section warnings:**  
>  **Cormac:** CBT, consensual incest, my-brother-is-a-god-to-me, risky electricity play  
>  **Artemis:** Implied incest, living with OCD, tub sex, gangbang fantasy, collars+leashes  
>  **Anton:** Food sex, rimming, outdoor (but fairly private) masturbation, erotica of questionable taste  
>  **Carver:** Hyper boobs, breast growth, both in a referenced sex dream (honestly probably the most vanilla one)  
>  **Bethany:** BDSM (dom POV), snakes, fantasized borderline bestiality (snakes used as torture implements), magic used for sex, book with offensive/outdated language (aka words you're not supposed to call people, not swears)  
>  **Daylen:** Stealth public masturbation  
>  **Charade:** Semi-public "anyone could walk in" masturbation, wanking on the job  
>  **Mystery Character:** Public masturbation, mildly dubious consent (addiction, obligation), humiliation, sexual dysfunction, aphrodisiac use, offensive/outdated language

**I**

Cormac’s in his bedroom, pulling up his robes. Anders will be home from rounds in a few hours, and Cormac knows he’ll regret not waiting around the sixth time Anders comes while fucking him through the mattress and he’s too wrung out himself to go for one more dry clench, but he’s really horny right now and he just can’t wait. Too horny to bother to pick through the dildo drawer or warm up the stone, either; just his hands, and the sweet ache between his legs. Cormac lies back on his bed, legs bent, stroking himself with one hand (he’ll use his fingernails in a bit) and pinching a nipple through his robes with the other. He doesn’t bother with porn. Last time he tried to find something to his tastes on the black market, the closest Varric could find him was a crude cartoon about busty elven maidens being flayed alive by evil magisters. Really, _really_ not what he’d been looking for. So instead, he closes his eyes and summons an image of Artie riding Anders, as Anders flicks a neat row of needles he’s woven through Cormac’s foreskin. Cormac gasps, imagining the pain, and digs his fingernails in as he continues to wank, scratching a reddening path on the underside of his knob. By now, he’s seriously considering reaching over to the dildo drawer, blind and one-handed (good thing his nightstand is already on the left), but that would still require taking one hand off himself, even if only for a minute. He’ll have to, anyway, but only to get the robes off. Still not enough. Time to cheat. He’ll never be as good at this as Anders, but Cormac calls up lightning and skims it over his skin as if washing himself with it, hands coming to rest under his balls and around his knob surrounding them with the storm, the tip of one finger jammed into his cockhole to send sharp spikes of electricity into his core. It feels like bleeding. It feels like the knife, so sharp it’s out of the wound before the bleeding, the cut deep. So close, and just a little more, and that much electricity is dangerous without a spotter, but he’ll probably be fine, he thinks, and he’s so close he almost doesn’t care if _la morte_ is _petite_ or _grand_ , to be dangerously Orlesian. Whatever he breaks, Anders will fix it, and if Anders gets there too late to fix it, Bethany probably can…and he really doesn’t want to be thinking about Bethy during sex, and it’s not going to happen, anyway. Artie’s rituals have to be good for some sort of protection. And that’s a much better thought during sex; Artie. Cormac imagines the needles in his knob again, but this time there are two rows, stuck straight in and through—he’d be pissing blood for days, without Anders—and the needles are threaded, and the threads are braided into ropes and Artie is pulling them, pulling them like reins, as he rides Anders and Cormac rides him; pulling them like he pulled Cormac’s hair on that day in the garden, the first day Cormac stood before his Brother-God sober and saw and worshipped him for what he was—and Cormac is gone, electricity snapping and crackling on his discarded robes and the blankets, as his inner muscles clench like a crushing prison and he spurts onto his stomach.

(Anders finds him, later, passed out on the bed, still surrounded by biting static but very much breathing. And across town, Artemis Hawke feels a sudden calm but doesn’t know why.)

**II**

Artie’s in the bath. It’s a good day for a bath, sunny and warm (but not warm enough for the humidity of a port city to be very oppressive), and the trees in the back garden are blooming, so for once the air of Kirkwall doesn’t smell like filth and fish, at least for a few yards around the house. Less filth and fish in Hightown, anyway. Absolutely _no_ filth and fish in Artie’s immaculately scrubbed bathroom, where Artie is about to pour lemon oil and soap shavings into the filling tub—though his hand hovers for a moment over the orange he keeps for when Cormac stays over. Artie climbs into the tub, taking care not to splash, twisting to fit his knees under the water. The disadvantages of being tall, Fenris calls it. But Fenris isn’t here; Artie woke to a note informing him that his husband was hunting slavers on the Wounded Coast and would be back about midday tomorrow. Artie hopes he took Anders with him. But he’s trying not to worry, and thus the elaborate ritual of a perfumed, bubbly bath in the first place. Artie deliberately relaxes into the lemon foam, letting rune-heated water ease the tension from his shoulders and back. He checked the runes before he got in, right? Ever since he got the tub, he’s been irrationally worried that one of Danarius’ minions must have tampered with the runes to boil him alive and leave Fenris alone and vulnerable. Senseless, he knows, ludicrous, really, but he can’t shake it. Think about something else. Fenris in the bath, washing himself with a sea sponge, water pouring down his back and glinting in the window light with the flex of his muscles. Yes, that’s much better. In the wake of averted panic, Artie’s knob begins to take an interest. He’s not going to see the real Fenris in the next few hours, and he doesn’t feel like walking across Hightown just to get boned, so why not here, now? Artie pours more lemon oil into his hand (not that it does much good with all the water, but it’s the right way to do things), and then wraps his hand around his knob. That’s nice. He strokes himself lazily, still not all the way hard, because he means to draw this out, make it last. After all, once he finishes, he’s not going to want to be in this bathwater anymore. But for now, there is warmth, pleasure, and lemons. He considers the orange again, thinking of Cormac, but decides against that. He is alone, for the moment, and for the moment that is sufficient. Without him realizing it, his hand is moving faster now, making a ripple in the water and bunching the foam. It’s good, but it could be better. Artie turns on his side and brings his other hand behind him, slowly working his fingers into his ass, chasing the oils in from the water’s surface. He finds the pleasurable spot and kneads it, sinking into a fantasy. Artie is wearing a collar, pulled tight by a leash, and he’s kneeling. Fenris holds the leash, and he’s sitting on some sort of throne, forcing Artie to kneel before him, on display, and whispering dirty things into his ear. Truly dirty things, vile, brutal things, transitive verbs, not (albeit voluptuously intoned) grocery lists, or the time Artie had said “talk dirty to me” and Fenris, with just the smallest spark in his eye, had purred “ _lutum, caenum, sordes, inluvies, limus, turpitudo, a…patinae hesternae, tibi facies_ ” before cracking up mid-thrust. No, just Fenris pridefully growling about what a dirty cockslut Artie is, while a crowd of virile elves have their way with all his holes and cover him with spunk. Artie arches, splashing water on the floor and up his nose, as he comes to the thought of taking three elven cocks at once up his asshole. He sputters and then gasps exhaustedly, watching his semen float to the top of the bathwater. Time to get out, mop the floor, send this mess down the drain, and then draw more clean water to rinse the soap out of his hair. …In a minute.

**III**

Anton is in his garden. He bought all that Tevinter sex furniture, so why not enjoy it? And it’s a perfect day for it, too, pleasantly warm even under the blooming lime trees. He probably wouldn’t even need the warming runes, if he were going for one of the stone knobs. Today, though, he chooses a rocking bench, barrel-shaped to hide the internal mechanism. Unlike most of the other furniture, it’s made of varnished wood; stone would crack too easily with all the rocking. Anton keeps it in a gazebo to keep the rain off. The point of such a bench is to create a thrusting motion, instead of the static filling one gets from sitting on a stationary dildo. Normally Anton would find his favorite blond Templar beefcake if he wanted such a thrusting motion, but Cullen is buried under paperwork. Sometimes, Anton suspects that Meredith is as much deliberately cockblocking him as trying to keep Cullen from investigating her abuses of authority. By now Anton has reached the pavilion. Holding the bench steady, he pops open the panel on its side to reveal the lever that extends the dildo and turns it partway, then slips something into the magazine rack on the side. Removing his trousers (and sitting on one of the non-bepenised wall benches), Anton takes a vial of oil out of his pocket and opens himself up. It’s quick, almost perfunctory, more about lubrication than stretching; Anton has things in his ass quite a lot. The next bit is the tricky part. Carefully stilling the bench with his non-greasy hand, Anton lowers himself onto the dildo. Once settled, he turns the dial to extend the dildo further, finally taking all of it. He’s filled, but he’s not quite ready to start rocking yet. Anton pulls the week’s Page Six out of where he put it before disrobing. He hasn’t really read it yet, just skimmed it, but it looked scandalous and intriguing. Anton finds a rhythm with the bench, then begins reading the story.

“Formosia panted with exuberant lust, suspended from the rafters of the kitchen ceiling. Anyone could enter—the room, or (she realized with a thrill of depraved delight) her own cunny, for that matter. Anyone could see her, the greatest lady in Carastes, reduced to the whore of a servile cook, and gladly begging for it. For almost without realizing it, she was crying out, ‘Oh, Turpimalch, fill me with your manly stirring rod!’

“Turpimalch chuckled. ‘Not yet, my sweet. You must hang for a little bit longer before you are spitted.’ He bent to taste her queynte. ‘But what’s this? A sweet girl should taste sweet, not like a salty fish. We must marinade you in sweetness, my sweet.’

“Saying this, he produced a pastry bag with a giant nozzle coated in butter, and inserted it into her anus. Formosia moaned in jubilation as Turpimalch filled her colon with boiled icing, stuffing her like a dessert sausage. He finished with a beautiful rosette upon her starfruit hole, then cast aside his instrument and began licking the icing out of her back-quim.”

Anton can hardly believe Varric published this. It’s beyond obscene. Void, Cullen will all but spontaneously combust when he reads this—and Anton knows that he will read it, because they both always read Page Six. But it makes for an overwhelmingly appealing image in his head, sinking little hooks of pleasure into his brain. _“Began licking the icing out of her back-quim.”_ Anton strokes himself fiercely as he rocks, repeating those words under his breath. Now, though, he’s imagining Cullen with the icing in his ass, and himself licking it out as Cullen squirms and moans and drips onto Anton’s gold bedsheets. Soon he splatters his _Gazette_ with his own facsimile of icing, letting out a sharp “Ah!” that sends birds fluttering away in the silence afterwards. Anton eases off the dildo and begins cleaning up. He’s really hungry for cake.

**IV**

Carver’s in the latrine at the Gallows, preparing for his next watch shift. When you have to stand still for three hours, it’s best to evacuate as much as possible beforehand. He finishes cleaning himself with the scrap paper—hilariously, given the Commander’s ire towards it, some of it is last week’s _Gazette_ , though unfortunately not the good bits—but he’s still got a few minutes to kill, and somebody’s done a remarkably detailed drawing of boobs on the wall. Carver’s weak for boobs. Specifically, he’s weak for elves with giant boobs. Something about pointy ears and giant bazongas just gets him rock hard, every time. Merrill doesn’t have particularly giant boobs, per se, but they’re big for her frame, and he’d never tell her but that’s what he noticed first, and even if he weren’t actually fucking in love with her, which he very much is, despite all the teasing from the other Templars, the things she can do with vines more than make up for being a couple bust sizes smaller than the heroines in dirty comics. Which, of course, didn’t stop him from having a dream last week where Merrill’s boobs grew to three times the size of her head and burst through her dress, right before his eyes, and he fucked her boobs while sucking on one of them and she fingered him—dream physics—and he had what was probably at least the fifth best nut of his life. Carver focuses on that memory, attempting to leave out the part where he’d woken up with jizz all over his sheets and his roommate and four other people watching him, having made bets on when he’d wake up or come and which one he’d do first, and how he’d had to wake up the poor Tranquil launder at second of Nights to get fresh sheets so he could pass morning inspection. No, just Merrill with impossibly huge boobs, as he tugs himself, legs wedged at angles in the privy. A little jizz gets on the wall, but Carver figures no one will really notice.

Someone knocks. “Just a second!” Carver yells, fastening his armor. He opens the door to see Lt. P—Denis, and he’s obviously not pleased.

“Watch started three minutes ago,” growls Denis. “How about a week of chamberpot scrubbing, since you seem to like the privy so much?”

“Yes Ser!” There is no way that The Penis will believe it’s ‘actually’ a Sword of Mercy, so Carver restrains himself from giving a single-finger salute. Barely. Just until the Lieutenant has his back turned.

**V**

Bethany doesn’t have anywhere to be until Viande. This means she doesn’t have to get dressed until an hour till, which is still nearly two hours away, and she must amuse herself until then. Fortunately, she has quite the means to do that: the classic _Art of Love_ has come out with a second volume, illustrated by an apprentice of the deceased original artist. Bethany bought a copy as soon as it could be smuggled into Starkhaven, of course—the series is banned everywhere except Antiva, Tevinter, and (more recently) Kirkwall, thanks to the Chantry—but she’s only a quarter of the way through it. She’s still much too busy introducing Sebastian to the first volume! Bethany pulls up the front of her shift as she sprawls facedown on the bed, opening to her bookmark. She always puts the bookmark in at the page where she comes, so she doesn’t spoil the erotic power of the next illustration by even the tiniest glimpse. Last time’s picture is a figure (gender indeterminate, for everything below the anus is obscured by a dwarven woman penetrating it) in a strange contraption made of, according to the caption, leather, Rivain gum, and a bellows, which leaves only the head and groin exposed. Intriguing, even just for the new take on bondage, perhaps even worth seeing a demonstration someday, but probably not worth commissioning such a device for her own bedroom. It might make Sebastian more tractable, but getting him into it would be a challenge. She turns the page. The illustration is a series of hermaphrodites, purportedly based on casts and sketches made by a doctor at the University of Orlais. Bethany suspects artistic license was involved. While they are intriguing, she finds them more clinical than pornographic. She turns the page. Oh. Here is something worth looking at, something that makes her reach for the tube of slicking cream and squeeze a little onto her fingertips. A man kneels, naked, bound, and erect, while a dark woman holds vipers within striking distance of his face. The text says something about ‘Rivaini snake rituals,’ and while Bethany is fairly certain that that’s utter bullshit, she’s too aroused to care or feel insulted. Besides, she knows that the woman in the woodcut is too close to what she herself might wish to do, even find someone trusting or reckless enough to do it to, if she’d manifested summoning instead of entropy. Maybe she could still do it, with illusions instead of real snakes. Sebastian requires a soft touch, at least for the moment, and no one else she’s been with has been quite that submissive (or into danger), but given the opportunity? (Bethany’s fingers fly on the hood of her clit, as she stares at the panel where a snake latches its fangs onto the terrified man’s left nipple.) Given the opportunity, Bethany would do and enjoy things that even Cormac would never dream of experiencing—and Bethany knows exactly what Cormac dreams of experiencing. She wrote a whole book on it once, partly as a present for Anders, but mostly to try to get him to shut up. She could make someone feel the pain of a snakebite, believe their guts were spilling out, or see spiders and worms crawling over them or even into them…and without any need to call a healer afterwards. Bethany’s fingers move down past her bony arch, her own wetness mixing with the cream, while she rocks her clit against her palm. She feels the heat building in her core, rising along the sides of her cunt, about to meet in the middle of its roof. Then it does, and the clenching starts, the breaking waves of pleasure and the spasm she can’t replicate with conscious movement. Too soon it’s over; she grinds down against her hand for a couple more pulses, but soon even those are gone. She’s sated enough for now, or close enough to make herself believe it. Bethany puts the bookmark in its new place, closes the book, and tucks the tube of cream under her pillow. Perhaps a nap before a long, formal event is a good idea. Her maid will see to it that she’s woken in time to dress, anyway.

**+I**

Daylen hasn’t exactly been planning to rub off during a meeting of Enchanters. It just kind of happens. There’s only so long you can listen to the Alchemy and Herbalism department chairs squabble over budgets before you a) stop listening, and b) become ready to do anything short of demonic possession to relieve the tedium. It starts slowly; a little subtle squirming in his chair, a little discreet adjustment, a little bouncing his leg at the right angle, cloth slippers soundless against the floor. Soon he’s got his off hand in the pocket of his robes, pulling the fabric just enough to rub along his knob.

Someone’s calling his name, and it appears to be the second or third time they’ve said it. “Sorry,” Daylen replies, feigning a yawn. “What was that?”

“I was asking what was your last quarter’s expenditure for pigments in your sculpture work, because pigments and similar components for anyone come out of the potion components budget,” repeats Senior Enchanter Ngobi.

“Uh…” Daylen reluctantly takes his hand out of his pocket and shuffles through his notes, “in terms of actual quantities of pigment, approximately 700 copper links. However, that ancient bottle of lapis/lazurite blend that we’ve had since apparently the Storm Age is practically out, and according to the ledgers back then, it cost two gold links and a silver link for a half-stone weight.”

“That’s a lot of money. So, define ‘practically out.’”

“There’s about a spoonful left. That’s one, maybe two commissions of blue wares.” Daylen bounces his leg again. Left untended, his knob has begun to ache.

“Perhaps we can secure a smaller amount. Secretary,” (a Tranquil, of course) “make a note to obtain an eggsweight quantity of mixed blue pigment, and to budget for a half-stone amount in two quarters. Now, on to the junior education department. Enchanter Zeigeräuber…”

Daylen’s hand sneaks back into his pocket. This time, he conjures a tiny half-pipe of stone and makes it vibrate. The Templars aren’t going to notice the spell; they’re even more bored than he is. He fits the half-pipe around his hard knob and holds it there until he comes, completely silently, but with no less pleasure. Even if anything soaks through to his robes, it should dry by the time this infernally long meeting lets out.

**+II**

Charade knows she shouldn’t. Thing is, the hydraulic pump is _right there_ , right where she has to keep watch, and it keeps vibrating. She can feel it in her feet, this close, and the pipes blur a little bit from the shaking. So here she is, with a spare pair of pants, because the rust stains are going to be super obvious about what she’s about to be doing on the ones she’s wearing now, about to straddle a water pipe. It’s a bit of a climb to get onto it, but when she does, it’s even better than she imagined. All the power of that pump, rattling through the pipe, pounding into her clit and core. Charade comes three times before she gets too sensitive for the vibrations, and spends the rest of her shift slumped down crouched against the wall, still zinging with aftershocks and weak in the knees.

**++I**

Gamlen’s lost the round, again. He really thought he’d got the card-counting right this time. Anton has tried to explain it several times, after someone tried to stab _him_ over Gamlen’s debts—they’re neither of them sure if it was ‘the old bastard’s got a rich relative’ or simple mistaken identity—but Gamlen’s just really bad at the whole concept. And at math, beyond what’s necessary to pay the grocer. And at knowing when to stop. With hindsight’s lens, Gamlen is now pretty sure that the time to stop was about six hands ago. Meanwhile, Serendipity is cheering—yep, she’s made it to 500 points, which means she’s won the pot for tonight. Small stakes, but Gamlen’s still over his allowance. (That’s not actually the fault of the way he gets around cards, this time. He just forgot that he bought more lamp oil earlier in the week. Though, the fact that that amount was enough to get him in debt, with the stakes they were playing, probably is.)

Serendipity flicks a card at him. “You, my fine friend, owe me a forfeit.”

“Yeah!” Jethann yells, drunkenly. It’s his night off. “Forfeit! Forfeit!”

“What do you want, my table knife?” It’s a reasonably valuable knife. Gamlen has had it since he was sixteen, a gift from his father, and one of the few things he didn’t pawn before Anton came back to Kirkwall and made it big (because seriously, where else was he going to find something that held an edge so well), but his allowance will come around on Hopeday, so long as no one successfully stabs Anton in the meantime, and then Serendipity will probably let him buy it back.

“Table knife’s not a forfeit,” laughs the painted queen, throwing back her hair.

“What, a kiss, then?” Gamlen scoffs.

“That would be a forfeit to you, not to me,” she replies.

Jethann has a grin on his face like he’s seen Serendipity’s ‘forfeits’ play out before. Gamlen decides that whatever’s likely about to happen to him probably won’t kill him, but does not bode well.

“Show me some action, darling,” coos Serendipity, trailing lacquered fingernails down Gamlen’s face.

“She means drop your trou and whip it out,” Jethann translates smugly and entirely too loudly.

“What?” Gamlen blinks. This has got to be some bizarre nightmare.

“You heard the man,” confirms Serendipity. “You’ve got some balls playing cards that stupid. I want to see them. The balls. Preferably before the end of the age.”

Oh, fuck it. It’s a brothel. Pantsless old dudes—Gamlen has no illusions about himself—are their bread and butter. Why in the Void Serendipity _wants_ to see this old dude pantsless, he doesn’t know. Maybe she’s got a fetish. Maybe it’s just about humiliating him and laughing about it later. Oh, well. At least it’s free. Gamlen stands up, unbuttons his pants and drops them to the floor. “Happy?” he snaps.

“I still can’t see them. Your shirt’s in the way.”

Gamlen pulls up his shirt in front, displaying graying pubic hair and a completely average, flaccid knob. “ _Now_ are you happy?”

“I want you to stroke it. Pull out the chair, sit in it, and tug off.”

“You do realize that’s going to take a while. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“But you’re probably less drunk tonight than you were most of the time, twenty years ago.”

“And what do you know of that?” Gamlen wonders just how old Serendipity really is, under the paint.

“At least try to get it up,” says Serendipity, rolling her eyes.

Gamlen tries, for a few minutes. It’s not working very well. He’s in public, being stared at by a gigolo and a drag queen, and while he’s never particularly cared what’s on anyone’s front so long as they’re in a dress, the heavy makeup really doesn’t do it for him. It’d be like fucking an Orlesian mask, he thinks. After a while of this, Jethann gets up with a huff, disappears for a few minutes, and comes back with a cup.

“Here, drink this. It’ll help with your problem.”

“What, so you can charge me for it, too?”

“No, this is my stash. I just can’t stand looking at something that pitiful.”

“Well, you trying getting it on with a bunch of people you’re not into staring at you!” grumbles Gamlen, realizing as soon as he says it that that is, in fact, Jethann’s actual job. He takes the glass.

It tastes like cheap wine, mixed with metal. Gamlen drains the cup anyway, and sets it on the card table. For a couple minutes, nothing happens, and then his nerves light up like he’s been dunked in a vat of lightning. His heart pounds, and he can’t touch himself enough. Not only is he hard, but harder than anything he’s woken up with in years. He hears Serendipity whisper “How much did you give him?” in the background, and Jethann’s reply “Standard human dose, I guess he’s not used to it,” but he doesn’t really process it. Everything feels so good, and before he knows it, he’s spurting into his hand. Somehow, he’s still mostly hard.

“What did you give me?” he asks Jethann, a little slurred.

“Orichalcum. I thought you must’ve at least tried it before.” The assumption speaks volumes, and they aren’t pleasant books.

“How long’s it last?” Gamlen points to his erection.

“A few hours, the way you’re going with it.” Jethann sighs. “Take my room. Toys are in the right-hand end table. Leave out anything you use, so I know to wash it. And take your pants!” he calls, as Gamlen gets up.

**Author's Note:**

> Why doesn't Cormac just commission porn he likes? Because that's how you get accused of blood magic. Poor dude has the most unfortunate kink for Kirkwall.
> 
> Fenris' Latin is, as you might have guessed, a series of synonyms for "dirt," followed by "um...yesterday's dishes, your face." He was probably drunk. Artie might have had jizz on his face.
> 
> Anton's porn: This is what I use my Classics degree for: writing porn within porn, but making the names a reference to the _Satyricon_. "Turpimalch" is a reference to "Trimalchio." "Formosia" basically translates to "Belle." I'm going to write the rest of that Page Six later.
> 
> Carver: I refuse to believe that it's at all common for even "vanilla" people to have no fetishes. Some fetishes are just culturally normalized, like, for straight men, breast partialism and hyper breasts. Thedas also seems to normalize elf fetishes. Carver's thing is probably comparable to the "Busty Asian Beauties" gag on SPN.
> 
> Originally I thought this was going to be a normal 5+1 with Daylen as the +1, but then I realized it would be hilarious if Gamlen was included (and some people probably do want to imagine him naked), and I remembered that Charade existed. For the life of me, though, I couldn't think up anything for their Solona. No idea why. I think it's long enough, anyway.
> 
> Many thanks to [Penbrydd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penbrydd/pseuds/Ywain%20Penbrydd) for answering awkwardly detailed questions about these characters, and to him, [Mav](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maverocknroll/pseuds/Maverocknroll), and [Tina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saiya_tina/pseuds/Saiya_tina) for letting people use their OCs!


End file.
